


The Buzz

by PoppyAlexander



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: At least it's clean, Bathroom Sex, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, Imagine Greg with tatts all over from his days as a young punk, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Tattoo(ing) Kink, Why yes Poppy Don't mind if I do
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-16
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-12-30 07:28:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12103734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: Watching Greg get tattooed has an unexpected effect on Sherlock's state of mind.





	The Buzz

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LonghornLetters](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LonghornLetters/gifts).



> Thank you to LonghornLetters for sponsoring the completion of this all-but-abandoned WIP!

“Oi, you’re a bit in my way, mate.”

Sherlock hummed in annoyance, shifted the angle of his body seven degrees to the left, and twisted the magnifier in his hand slightly farther from its target.

“Sherlock, let the man work, for god’s sake.”

Greg. Not really annoyed, but putting on his third-most-strident tone and second-most stern look so Sherlock knew he meant business. Best to set aside exasperation and that feeling like an insect was buzzing beside his ear in favour of a display of obsequiousness. Pulling himself to his full height, he withdrew the magnifier from its place inches from Greg’s forearm and shot a half-nod at the tattoo artist.

“Apologies. Carry on.”

The machine began to buzz again, and Sherlock felt it in his upper teeth, on the left.

“C’mere,” Greg said, and raised his free arm to invite Sherlock into his embrace. Sherlock leaned down to press his face against Greg’s neck, opened his lips there but didn’t press his tongue forward. Greg stroked his cheek against the side of Sherlock’s head, undoubtedly messing his hair. Quietly, so only Sherlock was likely to hear, he said, “You’re all right?”

Sherlock nodded against Greg’s neck, fetched a vacant nearby rolling stool and steered it so he could sit beside Greg.

“Jesus. Thought he was your dad,” the artist laughed, addressing Sherlock.

“There’s a twelve-year age gap. Not impossible, but unlikely,” Sherlock said casually, eyes fixed on the tattoo machine as the artist dragged it in a sure, straight line along Greg’s forearm.

Greg added, “It’s my hair. It makes me look old.”

“It doesn’t,” the artist said, by way of an apology.

Sherlock leaned close to Greg, turned his head so his lips were hidden from the artist’s view, and murmured against his ear, “You made the same face you make when I pinch your nipple.”

Greg huffed a small laugh, roughed up Sherlock’s thigh a bit with thick fingers and wide palm. “It fucking hurts.”

Sherlock muttered, “Which?” but didn’t wait for an answer. “Are we nearly done here?” he demanded, and the artist stroked a paper towel over the line he’d just inked in Greg’s skin.

“Don’t rush him,” Greg protested, at first smiling, then grimacing at a particularly difficult bit. “Don’t want him to make the pin-up girl’s tits all cockeyed.”

Sherlock let his shoulders drop. “I’m ready to leave.”

“So leave then.” Greg’s eyes were sparkling, and Sherlock knew his bluff was being called.

Sherlock glanced briefly at Greg’s tattoo—only touch-up work, it had faded in the years since he’d first got it as a young punk rocker, how gorgeous must Greg have been then, Sherlock couldn’t even contemplate—then demanded of the tattoo artist, “Restroom?”

“Just there, mate, down the hall, on your left.”

Another narrow-eyed glance at Greg, who clearly got the message, and Sherlock retreated down the indicated hallway.

The restroom, like the rest of the studio, was scrupulously clean—there wasn’t even a paper towel in the trash bin. It was small—just a toilet and a sink, towel dispenser on the wall, portrait-sized mirror—and painted slate grey with an abstract design in metallic silver. The ceiling was low, and there was a frosted-glass window high in the wall. Sherlock checked his watch and determined he had seven minutes to kill. He took off his suit jacket and hung it on a peg on the back of the door, unbuttoned his shirt cuffs and rolled them back. Just to pass half a minute he washed his hands; the soap smelled artificially of ginger flowers and patchouli.

Vaguely, he could hear several tattoo machines buzzing away at different intervals and pitches, and it made his skin itch in a delicious, needy way. He opened another button on his shirt, drew his fingertips outward, dragging the placket to bare more of the strip of pale chest, imagining how Greg would react to the sight—thin lips parting, brown eyes intent and serious, heart rate rising, thick-fingered hands reaching for the sides of Sherlock’s face to draw him in for a harsh, claimstaking kiss, all forceful tongue and a rattling growl in the back of his throat—and Sherlock licked his lips, finding his own reflection pleasingly wanton. He slid the flats of his fingers roughly down over his nipples, abrading them with the weave of his shirt. They beaded up in response, visible through the clinging white cotton. Greg would like it.

In no time, there was a sure, firm double-knock on the door, and Sherlock half-grinned as he uttered a snappy, “Come!” He turned to lean his backside against the edge of the counter surrounding the sink, quickly smoothed his shirt to be sure his tight nipples were displayed to good effect.

Greg stepped in and around the door in one quick move, instantly filling the space in front of Sherlock’s chest, so that Sherlock had a momentary sense of overwhelm, checking his balance with a hand on Greg’s shoulder. He glanced down at the cling-film wrapped forearm, the glistening smear of antibiotic ointment on the fresh tattoo, the angry redness of the skin there.

“Liked that, did you?” Greg’s palm went boldly to the front placket of Sherlock’s trousers, tugged hard to free the hook, the hidden button inside the waistband. Sherlock’s pelvis rocked forward to meet his thick fingers.

“More than you know.”

Greg yanked the zip, shoved in his hand and grasped Sherlock’s prick, crowding even closer, lips to Sherlock’s ear, pushing aside an errant lock of hair. “I think I know pretty well,” he insisted. “You’re a ridiculous brat, you know that?” His lip curled up in a half-smirk and his hand was still, only slightly squeezing Sherlock’s rapidly-attendant cock; he glanced quickly side to side, past Sherlock’s shoulders. “At least this place is clean.”

Sherlock’s hands went around Greg’s back at waist and neck, and he shuddered forward into Greg’s hand.

“Move, will you,” Sherlock demanded.

“Impatient, too,” Greg scolded.

“Have we only just met? If you’re not going to—“

Greg leaned away, withdrew his hand only enough to spit down into it—his aim was dead-on—then slipped his fingers around Sherlock’s drizzling crown, slicking him minimally, sliding down as Sherlock jerked forward, with bony fingertips digging hard into the back of Greg’s neck.

“You were saying?” Greg prompted, and his lip curled in a different way, knowing and almost cruel—more sneer than smile.

Sherlock was rapidly unspooling, licked his lips and let out a desperate gust of breath against Greg’s neck. Greg loomed so near that the backs of Sherlock’s shoulders pressed against the wall mirror behind him, and Greg half-supported him with his free hand cupping one plump arsecheek, dragging Sherlock closer, urging him on. His hand on Sherlock’s prick was relentless, stroking down, and down, and down again, while Sherlock struggled to find the rhythm, his hips jerking out of time.

“Very pretty,” Greg rumbled at him. Sherlock leaned his head back to gaze down at the tattooed forearm as it flexed and rocked, the hairs on Greg’s wrist, the ring Sherlock had bought him in a junk shop on the edge of Camden, heavy and smooth, a vacant-eyed skull.

Sherlock shifted his weight to regain his feet, pushed his chest against Greg’s, spidery fingers scraping through the hair at the back of Greg’s head, kissing him—turning away to gulp air—kissing him—biting his lips. Spitty breath against Greg’s mouth: “I would have knelt between your knees right there. Happily. The endorphins make your ears buzz,” he declared, correctly. “Your brain was sparking and sharp until the— _oh. . .fuck_. . .—wash of hormones fuzzed it over.” Sherlock pushed his feet apart, changing the angle and giving Greg space. “The pain subsided into a pleasant vibration—I could see it on your f— _uh!_ —face. But then it hurt again and you made the most exquisite expressions. Angry and proud and biting back whimpers.”

Greg let go a heavy sigh, set his teeth-edges against the side of Sherlock’s jaw.

“You look the same when I’m sucking you,” Sherlock told him. “And when I’m. . .” He felt his own blanket of fuzzing hormones washing over his brain, and all at once he felt warm and soft all over, and collapsed heavy against Greg’s shoulder. He tipped his face to catch Greg’s ear. “. . .when I’m riding your fat cock. _Mmmm. . .mmm_. . .”

Greg’s hand around him twisted, dragging, tight and perfect, only Sherlock’s pre-cum to help things along—nothing like enough slip—and Sherlock panted, his loose limbs tightening, his body becoming taut, thrilling like struck crystal, shimmery and bright, and Greg grunted at him, _yeh, yeh, attaboy yeh, come on then, come on_ , and Sherlock’s hands grasped, digging in his fingers with a wish to create that indignant, reverent expression on Greg’s face. . .

Sherlock finished desperate and heaving, knees weak, all sinking relief, but Greg only huffed a laugh and mussed his hair, abandoned him against the sink to clean his hand and a spot on his trouser-leg, licking his lips as if he could taste it. Sherlock slumped, breath wild, certain he would soon be on the floor, watching Greg busy about in all his incongruent efficiency.

“You?”

“Catch your breath.” A tooth-filled smile, so satisfied with himself, and why not.

“I can’t. I’ll never.”

“Better do,” Greg told him and tugged at the open placket of Sherlock’s trousers, this way and that, fighting to redress him despite Sherlock’s tendency just then to _lean._ “You’ll need it for what you’re going to do while I’m driving us away from here.” Another dirty grin, and Sherlock returned it, taking over button-and-zip duties for himself.

Sherlock did, in fact, repeatedly—eagerly—choke off his own breath during the drive back to his flat.

 

 

 

-END-


End file.
